Hooligan's Holiday
by Bartlebead
Summary: SPN/House M.D. (Title of a song by Motley Crue.) On a hunt Sam is wounded. Dean sews him up, but he sickens. Dean has no choice and takes Sam to the nearest ER – Princeton Plainsboro in New Jersey. The team assigned to Sam is supposed to be the best – but Dean can't tell them it's a supernatural injury. Worse, they unintentionally bring a case with them.
1. Chapter 1

1.

"Not interested."

"Fatigue but difficulty sleeping, rapid heartbeat, bulging eyes, –"

"Graves' disease, Dr. Cuddy. Graves' ophthalmopathy, aka bulging eyes." Dr. House turned his head as he walked to demonstrate. "You don't need me for that."

House kept moving, his long stride – despite the limp – forcing Cuddy to tap-tap-tap along behind him in her heels. She pulled out another chart and opened the folder. "This one's unusual. … Inability to cry or salivate. Patient has had other symptoms, was diagnosed originally as lupus, and responded well to medication with the lupus-like symptoms –"

"It _is_ lupus, and you're right, it _is _interesting, though hardly difficult to diagnose. It's Sjogren's syndrome, a disorder of the immune system. Often accompanies rheumatoid arthritis and – lupus." House stopped in front of the elevator and pressed the down button. He looked at Cuddy. "Relieve the symptoms. Not much else to do. It'll get better with time."

Cuddy tucked the stack of charts under her arm. "House, this is ridiculous. You have to do _something_ here. You get paid to see patients, not wander around irritating your colleagues."

The elevator arrived, and the doors opened. The car was empty. House got in, but Cuddy held the door open. She said, "If one of these more unusual cases doesn't interest you, there's always the clinic. They could use another pair of hands. Which is it?"

House smiled at her, knowing it was the expression of his she found the most irritating. "I have to go see a man about a horse at the moment. A sick horse. I'm needed elsewhere, Dr. Cuddy. Healing the ill, et cetera." He pushed her arm gently away from the elevator door.

As the doors began to close, Dr. Cuddy let out a groan of exasperation. She shouted, "House! You have one hour to find a case or find the clinic!"

The doors closed.

2.

Dean ignored the "no parking" signs and skidded to a stop, jerked open the car door and leapt over the hood to the other side of the Impala. He grabbed the handle of the passenger door and pulled it open. Shit – Sammy was still seizing. Dean reached in to get his brother under the arms to get him out of the car without hurting him.

This was so bad he didn't even want to think about it. What had been a simple – okay, kinda deep – slashing from a _busaw_ had gone way wrong. Despite Dean's care from day one, it had been infected by day three. In the middle of a low-level ghost hunt, Sam had gone white, swayed on his feet for a couple of minutes and fallen hard to the ground. The ghost missed Sam on account of it, and that gave Dean the space to burn its bones, so Dean thought for a minute Sam had dropped on purpose. But no, Sam was out cold and hot with fever. By the time Dean got him back to the hotel, Sam was seizing, seizing hard. Dean took him to the closest hospital – Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

So here they were, Dean trying to drag Sam, who was still shaking like a sonofabitch and scaring his big brother near senseless, into the ER. Dean hated hospitals. He hated 'em for himself and he especially hated 'em for Sam. He wouldn't be allowed to stay with him, he'd have to play all sorts of games with names for insurance and such, and he never knew what the hell they were talking about. Sam was the one who knew that shit, and it didn't look like Sam was going to be explaining anything for a while.

Damn. He hoped Sam was going to be okay.

Halfway up the brightly lit ramp some guys in scrubs met Dean with a stretcher. It took some doing to get Sam, stiff and shaking, onto it, and his legs from the knees down weren't even supported, but it was better than dragging him, and, man, Sam was _heavy_, so even though Dean didn't want to give him up to a bunch of strangers, he really didn't have much choice. He caught his breath while the medical dudes carefully carried Sam up to the hospital doors, then loped to catch up with them. They took Sam right into a room, beckoning for Dean to go too, and told him someone would be in for triage in a minute.

"Please sit down, sir," one of 'em said to Dean, and Dean wanted to punch him for the stupidity of it. He caught his temper though, knowing it was fear. Tucking it into the deeper part of his brain (where he never went unless he had to), Dean said, "Thanks," instead.

He couldn't sit though, not with Sammy like this. Thank whatever that he'd stopped seizing and was now just unconscious. Maybe he was just asleep.

Dean walked over to Sam, strapped to the bed so if he had another seizure he wouldn't fall off. Really hating that, Dean said quietly, "Sam? Sammy? You just sleeping now?" Dean tried a little louder, hoping like hell, but knowing sure as anything that Sam wasn't any better and they were in the best place for him.

Sam lay there, his giant of a little brother, eyes finally closed, eyelashes dark above his cheeks. His long, dark hair flopped over his face and Dean gently moved it away from his eyes and mouth, pushing it behind his ear. Sam didn't move at his touch. He felt hot. Jesus, he was burning up.

The triage nurse, a lady of about fifty, came in and asked the usual bunch of hospital questions. Name, rank, insurance number. He'd give them the names they'd been using, in case Sammy woke up when Dean wasn't there to tell him stuff.

"Vince Neil," he said. "This here is my brother Sam Maloney. Half-brother," he said, before she could ask. They had fake insurance in both names, so that was cool. Maybe for once luck would be on their side and there wouldn't be any trouble. "When is a doc gonna come see him?"

"As soon as someone is available," she said. She thanked him and left.

Dean paced for about a thousand years, making sure by sheer power of thought that Sam didn't start seizing again. Much more of it and there'd be brain damage for sure.

A footstep behind him – Dean whirled around, one hand clenched into a fist, the other ready to go for his knife. Seeing the girl in the lab coat, he remembered where he was and forced himself to back down and relax. Yeah, Sam was where he oughta be, and Dean probably _shouldn't_ be here till he'd had a couple of beers and chilled the hell out.

"Miss?" Dean said, politely as he could, given the amount of adrenaline still pumping through him.

"Doctor," the girl said firmly. "Dr. Alison Cameron. And you are?"

"_You_'re a doc?" Holy shit, they were making 'em prettier these days.

"Yes, I'm Dr. Cameron."

Oops. She didn't like that. Gotta be more careful.

"Sorry, Dr. Cameron, I just didn't expect someone as … uh … young as you. My bad."

She smiled. "It's all right, Mr. Neil. That does happen from time to time. And the patient is your brother, Sam, age 23?"

"Yeah, that's right. He's really sick, and … um … I thought I'd better bring him in."

"So tell me about what happened."

A _busaw_ we were hunting got too close and slashed the hell out of my brother's chest with its filthy, sharp claws. I cleaned out the cuts and sewed him up like I have a million times before but this time it's no good. This time, though, he gets really sick and has to pass out right in front of me before I can tell he needs a hospital.

Yeah. Right.

"My brother and me were out a few days ago hunting. We got separated and the next thing I heard was Sam shoutin' to me and his gun went off. By the time I found him the … uh … bear … had run off and Sam was on the ground, hurt."

She looked him in the eye and asked, "A bear attacked your brother? In New Jersey?"

He flushed. "No! We weren't hunting in New Jersey. We were in … Wisconsin, northern Wisconsin, at the time."

"And what hospital did you take him to after the bear attack?"

"Hospital? Um, well, we weren't near one, actually. So I cleaned him up. And I had a coupla Red Cross classes a while ago, so I sewed him up, too."

The look on her face … he wasn't sure if it meant she didn't believe him or she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"I was real careful, Doc. We have a top-notch first aid kit."

She said slowly, "Because … Mr. Neil … you and your brother hunt a lot."

Was that a question? Dean really hated hospitals.

"Um. Yeah?"

She seemed to give up for the time being. Dean was sweating bad, he was so uncomfortable. Dr. Cameron carefully didn't look at him – he could tell – and moved over to Sam's bed. She put the chart down at the foot and turned to Dean.

"You'll have to leave now, Mr. Neil –"

"Vince, please."

"All right. Vince, I'm going to have to ask you to leave for a bit; we're going to get Sam into a hospital gown and examine him completely. The waiting room is right down the hall to the left."

"Whoa… Shouldn't I be here in case he wakes up? I don't want him to freak out or anything. …" Because the last thing he'll probably remember is digging up a grave and who knows what he'll say if he's still kinda out of it. And also, Dean didn't want Sammy to freak out. He'd most likely been keeping to himself how bad his chest hurt, hoping it'd get better by itself. Contrary to all indications. So finding himself in a hospital with some chick doctor poking him all over might be kinda freaky. Actually, it might be kinda hot.

Dean realized the doctor was speaking. He looked up at her.

"– come and let you know right away if he wakes up."

"Right. Okay. Waiting room … where again?"

"Down the hall to the left." A light knock on the room's half-open door made her glance in that direction. A couple men in white jackets walked in.

Dr. Cameron said, "Vince, these are the other doctors on the diagnostics team: Dr. Foreman and Dr. Chase."

Dean saw two guys, both pretty young. Foreman was black, Chase was white, about the same height; both, like Dr. Cameron, looked pretty well put-together. Foreman's hair was cut close and a wariness in his eye told Dean he was no suburbanite. Chase's hair was verging on the Sam-ish. It was longer and kinda floppy. It made Dean kind of warm to the guy.

On the other hand, now Dean felt outnumbered.

Sam's hair had fallen over his eyes again. Honest to God, he just looked asleep. Maybe Dean shouldn't of brought him here. Maybe he'd just got overexcited and for that there was gonna be hell to pay. Looking down at his sick brother, Dean forgot himself again and pushed Sam's hair away from his face. Sam was boiling. Yeah, he was pretty sick.

He looked up to see all three docs watching him closely. Self-consciously he cleared his throat. "Um... He's been burnin' up for a while now. He might be gettin' dehydrated."

Dr. Chase nodded. "Good point, Mr. –?"

Cameron interjected, "Neil."

"Vince's fine," said Dean.

Chase continued, "We'll get him on some hydration right away."

Huh. English? Na, Australian? Yeah. Australian, like Crocodile Dundee. Dean had a sudden urge to try to make Dr. Chase say, "g'day, mate," but he left it alone. No need to look even weirder than he and Sam probably looked already.

"Well, then," he said, "I guess I'll be in the waiting room. Down the hall and to the right, right?"

He left the Three Docs (like a band name, a really bad band name) and Sammy in the sterile little room and made his way to the waiting room. It was late and there was no one else in there. Dean paced for a while, finally giving in to sit down in a puffy lounge chair, putting his head in his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

3.

"Mr. Neil. Vince."

A woman's voice. Its owner was shaking his arm. Dean had to work to dig his way up through several layers of sleep before he got to the surface. Before he remembered where the hell he was, he said, "Yeah, that's me, darlin' , I'm ready to rumble," and a smothered laugh drew him up the rest of the way to consciousness.

Shit. He was at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital waiting to see how Sam was doing and the voice belonged to the chick doctor.

He sat up straight and apologized. "I'm sorry, ma'am … uh, Doctor. I guess I fell asleep. Musta been dreaming."

Dr. Cameron smiled at him, her pretty eyes crinkling. "It's all right, Vince."

He smiled back. "You're probably the prettiest doctor in this hospital," he said.

She sat down on a chair next to his but said nothing. He figured she was letting him wake up a little. A few more people sat and stood in the waiting room now. Dean wondered what time it was, whether it was still night or whether the sun was up. He could eat a horse if it stood still long enough, and he wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee.

"How's my brother?" he said.

"We were able to stop the seizing," Dr. Cameron said. "We used a cooling blanket and ice packs to bring down the fever. His temperature was 105 when you brought him in."

"105! Holy shit! Sorry, I mean. … Was it my fault? Because I took care of him myself?"

But how could that even be? He and Sam and Dad, they'd been taking care of each other's injuries and illnesses since Dean was a little kid. They hardly ever went to the hospital. It was like a rule: you don't go to the hospital unless there's no other way. If it was Dean's fault that Sam was so sick, he was never going to forgive himself.

Dean felt sick himself now, like he might throw up. He was supposed to look after Sam, not drag him into hunt after hunt with an infected wound_._

"No, no," she put her hand on his arm. "You did an incredible job. Better, actually, than I could have done. It's hard to believe you haven't had any medical training."

The sick feeling drained away, leaving Dean weak. Thank God; whatever this was, it wasn't his doing. "But the wound is infected anyway?" he asked.

"It doesn't seem to be an infection per se," Dr. Cameron said, frowning. "We can't find anything else on or in Sam's body that could be causing such a high fever, yet there's no drainage, not even any swelling. However, it isn't healing. The gashes are seeping blood continually, and, though we've cooled your brother down for the moment, he's still under the cooling blanket. We don't know what will happen when we remove it."

Dean rubbed his face with his hand. "Can I see him?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not, not right now. The cooling apparatus requires a temperature-controlled room and we can't go in and out. It's probably best – it can look pretty alarming to family."

"I'm more alarmed not to see him at all," Dean said, sitting back in his chair.

"So what do you think it is, if it's not an infection?"

"We're doing more blood tests right now. If Sam's temp stays down after we take him off the cooling apparatus, we might do an MRI."

"Basically, then, you got no idea. And that means you can't fix it."

"Yep, so far I'd say that's exactly what it means." The Aussie accent announced the arrival of Dr. Chase. He'd come through the doorway behind Dean, and Dean hadn't even heard him step up. He'd been thrown off his game.

Dean looked around and nodded at Dr. Chase. "Yo," he said. "Dr. Chase."

"Mr. Neil. Vince." Chase sat down, too.

It was like a frickin' tea party now. What about Foreman, the guy Dean hadn't heard talk yet? Surely he'd been invited too. Hope he got there before the cookies ran out.

This was stupid. Were they gonna be able to help Sam or not?

Chase caught Cameron's eye, like he thought Dean wouldn't notice. Cameron wasn't smiling anymore, and she nodded back at Chase. Uh-oh, bad sign.. He waited for it.

And here it came.

"We think something Sam ingested might be working to prevent clotting and repair. Can you tell us about anything your brother might have eaten or drunk the day of the attack or the day or two following it?" Chase asked carefully.

Why was he being so cautious with that question? Dean was missing something. "Sure, I can tell you what I _saw _him eat. He mighta had some kinda snack I was unaware of. We're together a lot, for work, you know, but not every minute, right?"

"Of course."

There was something not quite right going on, but for the life of him, Dean couldn't suss it out. Later.

"Well, for breakfast, Sam had waffles and coffee. For lunch we stopped at a diner and he had a turkey sandwich and a really crappy-looking salad. We mighta had a bag of chips around 4:30. We didn't get dinner that night. We were hunting and didn't manage to bring anything for the road." He thought. "And right afterward he had a beer and some antibiotics and a painkiller, not a heavy-duty one."

Cameron said drily, "You weren't kidding about your well-stocked first-aid kit. Antibiotics and painkillers?"

Dean wasn't going to even talk about how they got their stuff. It wasn't any of their business. They were supposed to be figuring out how to fix Sam.

Chase said, "What antibiotics and what painkiller?"

"I don't really remember," Dean said. Then the penny dropped.

"Okay, so my care of the injury was fine, but you think maybe I gave him something that screwed him up? What kind of shitty idea is that? You better not be thinking I did something like that on purpose. I would never hurt Sammy. It's my job to keep him safe."

"Really? With all this 'hunting' you do?" said Chase. Dean didn't like the look of the ever-so-slight sneer he detected at the left side of the guy's upper lip. "We looked your brother over and he is _covered_ in scars, many very fine, barely visible, but they're all over his body. What kind of 'hunting' do you two do?"

Dean stood up, forcing the two doctors to sit back to avoid being bumped. "I'm not going into that. It's none of your business what we hunt." Damn, he needed coffee and some food. Badly. He couldn't think straight.

They gawped at him for a second, then they stood up too. He shoved past them, ignoring the apology on Cameron's face. They followed him to the door of the waiting room. "When I get back I want to see Sam," he said. "I'm gonna see him even if he's still in the cooling… thing… blanket, all right? I see you guys asking me a lot of questions, acting like maybe _I _poisoned him or somethin'. What I _don't_ see is you in there with Sam, makin' him better."

Crap. He was beginning to sound whiny. Fuck this, he was gonna get some coffee. And pie. Pie would help.

Dean turned and stormed out the door. He kept going till he got out of the hospital completely. It was broad daylight, a cloudless day with the sun beating down from about eleven o'clock. He musta slept for hours.

He looked around him to get his bearings. He didn't remember moving the Impala, but there it was in a parking spot. He felt his right pocket and then his left. No keys, dammit. Must've left 'em in the ignition in his rush to get Sammy into the sickhouse. Who had 'em?

Dean sighed. It was always something. He squinted up at the sun.

Coffee. Food. Now.

4.

Dean checked his cellphone for the time. 12:30 p.m. Time to get back in the hospital and go see Sam. If he was better maybe they could get the hell outta New Jersey this evening.

Third cup of coffee. He was flooded with coffee. The blueberry pie was freakin' worth every penny. A memory touched him of that scarecrow

god in – what was that town's name? Burkitsville. Yeah. Made him shiver just to think about that fugly. Well, that was apples and this was blueberries, so just forget about it.

He picked up the check, relieved as usual to do the math and find he had enough money. Enough for a decent tip for the waitress. Not much to look at, he judged, but a nice girl, and she brought him all the coffee he wanted. He was caught by surprise by a hefty belch that Sam would of got all prissy and Miss Manners about. Dean missed him.

Yup, time to go be Vince Neil.

He headed out.

The diner he'd found was pretty close to the hospital. It looked a lot like the one on that TV show he used to watch sometimes when he was a teenager and didn't have a date. Or a hunt. Or had to watch Sam. Or … What was it called? "ER," appropriately enough. It was pretty good. Except, of course, it was about hospitals. Even ones on TV made him want to throw up.

Annnnnd here he was, already. Yay.

Dean took a last breath of fresh parking-lot air and entered.

Screw the open elevator, he preferred the stairs. It was just the second floor anyway and Sam's room was just at the end of the hall. Room 2612. The "cooling blanket" thing sounded creepy and he hoped Sam was back in the bed. Best yet would be Sam sitting up requesting reading matter or some such. But that wasn't going to happen. How did that song go? "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all?" Of course, it was really Sam's bad luck, and Dean was just the schmuck who'd let it get his brother.

Dean stopped at the door to the room and, closing his eyes, leaned his head on the cool wall. Gotta prepare himself now. Sam, be better. Please. We didn't know the monster was poisonous. It would go into the journal later, but, please, could it just be curable?

"Mr. Neil?" A new voice and a tap on the shoulder. Deep voice, a little older than Dean. Must be Foreman, the last one left on the "diagnostic team."

Dean turned his head slightly toward the speaker and said, "Yes?" without opening his eyes.

"Are you all right?"

Sigh. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired." He gave up the support of the wall with regret. He opened his eyes. "Dr. Foreman, right?"

"That's right. Your brother's on his way back from the cooling room. He should be back in a few minutes. Would you like to come in and sit down? You can wait in his room."

"I'd like that. Thanks."

Dr. Foreman opened the door for Dean and entered after him. They musta brought a second chair in here while Dean was eating lunch. Probably so they could ask him some more stupid questions in comfort.

Dean sat down and the doctor sat down, too. And now – da da dahhh – for the questions.

First thing Foreman did, though, was hand him the keys to the Impala. His baby!

"Somebody had to park it for you," the doc said. "That's a nice ride."

"Yeah, she is that. You know classic cars?"

"Not really. Just enough to appreciate the chance to drive one." Foreman smiled."Mr. Neil, I'm not going to pretend we know what's happening with Sam. So, straight out: Something's poisoning him. It's preventing healing of those dangerous lesions and it's mimicking the effects of infection, including lethally high fever and seizures. If you've got any idea what it is, tell us now. We need to know."

Dean started to sweat. These people wouldn't believe a word of it. Maybe the chick doc? Nah, who was he kidding? Unless people saw the supernatural for themselves, they just thought you were nuts. He said lamely, "Maybe a snake bit him, too? Um. Coincidentally?" That was the closest he could get to telling Foreman it was a venom that had taken Sammy down.

It was frustrating. Really frustrating. And that made him mad. "Look, _you_ guys are the doctors. Not me. If I knew what it was, don't you think I'd'a done something myself?"

Foreman put a hand out, as if to stop the rant Dean knew was coming if he didn't get outta there. It didn't work.

"I mean, for Chrissakes, why the fuck would I bring him to a _hospital_ if he had somethin' I could figure out? You know how many times I've sewed up Sam or our dad?"

Shit, he was saying a lot more than he meant to. Gotta stop this now. He stood up.

"Man, I am i_outta_/i here. I'll be back later. Maybe _you_ and _Doctor Chase_ and _Doctor Cameron_ – there's three of you trained guys, right? – maybe you can use all that education and fix what might be _killin' my brother!"_

Foreman had stood, too. Dean didn't know what was going to happen next. A call to security, most like. Dad used to get chucked outta hospitals sometimes when he blew up.

A clanking and a rolling of wheels and the sound of voices in the hall made Dean turn around to see Sam being brought into the room by a nurse and a couple of orderlies. And Cameron and Chase. And some tall older dude – taller than Dean, shorter than Sam – with a cane. He was wearing civvies, so who the hell was he?

But he forgot the guy when he looked down and saw Sam was awake. He was over by him in a split second, escorting the rolling bed into place.

"Sam! You okay? Dude, you scared the shit outta me!"

Sam, pale, eyes half shut, smiled up at him. "I feel fine right now, Dean –"

Dean gave him the "not my name" look and was relieved to see Sam got it. He mouthed, "I'm still Vince Neil," at him and relaxed a little at the quirk of Sam's lip.

"Vince," said Sam. "Much better." He closed his eyes.

A sharp, sudden prod in the side came out of nowhere and Dean, fast, had turned and found himself grasping the end of the older dude's cane. "What the hell, man? That hurt!"

The guy pulled the stick out of Dean's grip. Huh. Strong. But Dean didn't have a reason to hold onto it, either. Not unless he tried to poke him again.

"You're this patient's brother?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"I'm his doctor."

"Huh? These three are his doctors. You ain't even wearing a white coat."

"Nonetheless. I _am_ his doctor. These three" – he gestured at them – "are _my_ team."

Dr. Foreman seemed to decide it was his job to – finally – make the introduction. He stepped up and said, "Uh, Mr. Neil – Vince – this is Dr. Gregory House, head of Princeton-Plainsboro's Diagnostics Division. House, this is Mr. Maloney's half-brother, Vince Neil."

Dean saw Dr. House's eyes light up. Damn. He already didn't like this guy.

"Vince Neil? Really?"

Better just steamroll it through.

"Yeah. You got a problem with it?"

House stood there, both hands on the cane, leaning onto it, a big, evil grin plastered across his face.

"Nope. No problem at all. However, if the patient is Sam Maloney, and you're Vince Neil, I must be Nikki Sixx."

Dean's heart sank. The other three were just standing, looking cluelessly back and forth between the top doc and him.

"I thought your name was House."

"Well," House drawled, taking his time, playing with Dean, "we're rather a _motley crew_ here, so sometimes I decide to take on a different name. If you prefer Mick Mars or Tommy Lee, I could go with that."

Dr. Cameron spoke up, sounding irritated. "What are you talking about, House? This man's half-brother is seriously ill –"

"Half-brother? I don't think so. I think if we were to get a couple of DNA samples, we'd find that you" – he looked at Dean pointedly – "and the other member of our _little band_ are full brothers."

"Whatever, House, that doesn't even matter. Can you just –"

"Dr. Cameron. Have you ever even listened to rock and roll?"

She exhaled noisily. "Why are you asking me this?"

Dr. Foreman stood quietly. This must happen a bunch, Dean realized. House must be pretty smart and he must make them guess a lot. It'd be hard to fool him, or come up with something the man didn't know something about.

Chase had been messing about with his cellphone. It was an iPhone or something like that. It was more expensive than Dean would ever be able to afford. It was probably worth more than Dean. When Chase looked up, Dean saw something new on his face.

"Motley Crue!" he said. "I've heard of them." He waved his phone around. "American heavy metal band." He looked up at his boss. "'Dr. Feelgood'?"

"'He's the one that makes ya feel all right!'" quoted House. "So maybe I should be Dr. Feelgood." He turned back to Dean. "What do you think, 'Vince'? Played any good gigs lately? And what about 'Sam' here? He's pretty big for a girl."

When Sam got better, he was never gonna let Dean forget this. "Dean," he'd said when he got his fake cred, "why is giving me a girl's name so damn funny to you? Doesn't it get old?" He'd said, "Sammy, that's a big brother's job, bein' annoying. And I'm just awesome at it."

Well, now it was old. If Sam would just get better, so they could get the fuck outta this fuckin' hospital, Dean would never play that joke again. Promise.

Sam was out cold again, though. He seemed more comfortable, but the bandage on his chest was beginning to soak through again. It wasn't over.

What the hell should Dean do? He looked back at the top doc, who was pretending to examine his fingernails. What an asshole. Had to do this in front of a whole boatload of people. Showoff. At least the orderlies and the nurse had left.

"All right," said Dean. "Those aren't our real names –"

"Yes, I know that, Mr. Dean Winchester. When I found out I was treating two members of Motley Crue, but this Sam wasn't Samantha, I had your brother's fingerprints checked. Got yours off a cup." House smiled. "So I also know you have a record and you're" – he stage-whispered – "wanted."

"Look, fine," said Dean. "You've had your fun and games. How about I just pack up my brother's stuff and you give him some antiobiotic or somethin' and he and I just disappear." He'd had enough of this place anyway. He shoulda called Bobby or somethin', not come here. Sam woulda made it.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Winchester. I needed a case, and your brother's is the most interesting one I've seen in weeks. Clawed by a bear, lesions cared for perfectly – if illicitly – and immediately, yet followed by high fever and seizure with no infection. Added to that, the wound refuses to heal, though there is no other reason to diagnose hemophilia. It'll be a real challenge." House smiled smugly. "And if your obvious _anger-management_ issues get out of control, _Vince_, we can just call security – and the FBI." House looked so damn pleased with himself.

But Dean got that he didn't plan to call the authorities on them, at least not now. So, okay. Sam was gonna get treatment. Dean would have to find out more about House, as well as the other docs. Were they going to turn Dean and Sam in, or was it just a threat? Did the other three do whatever their boss told 'em to, or might one of 'em call the feds in on their own, once they found out what the Winchesters were wanted for?

"Code blue." A female voice exploded overhead. "Floor 4, room 4783. Code blue. Dr. House, please report to room 4783. Code blue."

House's team looked to their boss for his response. House shrugged. He said, "Time to go, kiddies." To Dean, he said, "Don't disappear. And be ready to tell some truth. We're going to need some of that to cure your brother."

In under a minute Dean and Sam were the only ones left in the room. Dean listened to the recurring Code Blue, knowing House and co. had reached room 4783 by when it stopped.

"Sam, I wish you'd wake up. These are your kinda people. They know too much more'n I do. Especially House. That sonofabitch would be a perfect demon host." Dean sighed and pulled one of the chairs over to the bed, up near Sam's head. "I guess I might as well get some sleep, too."

He made himself comfortable, or as comfortable as it was possible to get in a hospital chair, and settled down, falling asleep almost immediately.


	3. Chapter 3

5.

When Dean woke, it was night. The room and corridor lights had been dimmed to that no-man's-land level of light that prevailed when those asleep were under watchful care.

"Dean?"

Sam was awake.

"Sam! You okay?"

"Not really. I don't feel right. My head's … like it's got electricity in it. Can you get me some … water?"

"Sure, Sammy. Just relax, I'll get you some." He found a cup on a tray on a the little dresser that held the clothes Sam had been wearing when he came in. Taking it over to the sink, he said, "You want a doctor?"

"Oh, man. Dean, I … I … can't breathe. I can't … move. It … hurts, Dean. Get …"

Dean dropped the cup of water into the sink and whipped round. "Sammy! "

Sam was starting to shake. Dean watched him helplessly for a second, saw Sam's back arch and his whole body stiffen. Dean knew pain when he saw it. "Hold on, Sam! I'll get someone!"

He ran out the door, full-speed, and made his way to the nurses' station. No one seemed to be there, so he leaned over the counter.

"Nurse!" he shouted. "Anybody! I need some help! My brother's in trouble!"

A curvy brunette rushed round the corner. "Sir?"

"You a nurse?" he asked. He couldn't tell who was a doc and who was a nurse in this place.

She nodded.

"My brother's shakin' all over and he's really hurtin'. Will you come help?"

"Of course." She came around the counter. "What room?" she said.

"2612."

"Right, let me notify his doctors."

"Thanks. Very much."

It only took a minute to page them, during which Dean hopped up and down impatiently. They legged it back to the room. Sam was seizing violently. The saturated bandage on his chest had given up the ghost, and blood was now splattering off Sam in all directions as he shook.

Dean clutched handfuls of his own hair and pulled, tried to make himself think what to do, watched Sam helplessly. The nurse stood transfixed in horror, until Dean grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Lady –" he glanced at her ID tag. "Laura! Help him. Please!"

She looked at Dean, aghast. "I don't know what to do for this! I've never seen anything like it!"

"Call the docs again," he urged. "They, what, cooled him down last time. They can do it again!"

He ran over to the sink to make a paper towel wet and cold while she paged again. He did the best he could to get it onto Sam's forehead. It didn't seem to be doing anything. Shit, shit, shit!

Nurse Laura must've pulled herself together. She got on the room phone; Dean heard her call down to somewhere for ice.

"No docs?" Dean shouted over to her.

"I've paged them three times!" she yelled back. "I'll keep trying. If they don't show, I'll call down to the ER. But they don't know the case –it's not a great scenario for the patient!"

"Screw this," said Dean, tossing the useless sodden pulp into the sink. "I'll go find 'em myself."

He flew out the door and down the hall, stopping in at every office to demand, "Where's House?"

No one knew, but no one seemed surprised to be asked, which told Dean that House was not only clever but a sneaky bastard. He probably did this all the time to people. Threatened 'em, threw his freakin' weight around, and then disappeared.

Twenty minutes passed, Dean thinking the whole time about Sammy and his blood doing a Jackson Pollack on the floor and walls of his room, probably on his nurse, too.

He was panicking and he hated that more than anything and god knew what the hell he would do if he didn't find that smug fucker to come help Sam but it sure as shit wasn't gonna be pretty and House was gonna find out what kind of a bastard Dean could be if–

Suddenly Dean remembered that code blue – whatever it was – call to room 4783. It musta been important to make all the docs vanish like that.

He made for the stairs and took them three at a time and made straight for 4783.

Loud voices battered each other in the room, making Dean slow down and stop for a little listen before entering to see if any of the voices belonged to the people he was looking for.

They did.

But what Dean heard made him listen longer, even though Sammy was sick in his room downstairs:

House: "So you were sleeping in this chair when someone came in and attacked – and nearly killed – your critically ill wife?"

Unknown voice: "It's what happened, I told you all this yesterday. The police don't believe me, but it's true. I was so tired! I've been taking care of her for months. Why would I do that to her? I loved her!"

Chase: "House! Come look at her – Mrs. Chernoff? Mrs. Chernoff, can you hear me?"

Foreman: "Looks to me like she's had a stroke…. She's blind. Cameron, will you rub your fingers next to each ear?"

A short silence and then –

Cameron: "Deaf, too. Neither of which were symptoms she had before."

Chase: "House, she's weakening pretty rapidly; much worse than after the attack yesterday.

Unknown voice: "Maida. Maida! Please don't die! Not like this…."

House: "I believe you, Mr. Chernoff –" (Dean could hear in House's voice the hefty dose of disbelief; chances were Mr. Chernoff could too) "– I believe you were asleep when your wife took a turn for the worse. But what's led you to believe something has attacked her?"

Unintelligible murmuring.

"Ah. Well. This is incredible!" said House. His voice had changed; he sounded eager, directing his remarks to someone else. "What are the chances of there being two such unusual cases at one time? Ignore the pagers. We're busy."

Two things struck Dean simultaneously: (1) The chances of there being two unrelated supernatural cases at one hospital was highly unlikely. Therefore this one was likely related to Sam's illness. (2) The page House had just ordered his team to ignore had probably originated in Sam's room.

Last straw. Dean saw red.

He stalked into the room. Yeah, they were all there, House, Foreman, Chase, Cameron, pulling their third degree act on the poor S.O.B. whose wife that was lying there – blind, deaf, and in agony plain as day.

Dean was paralyzed for a moment by the sight of her. Writhing, clutching herself and the bedclothes, spewing bile, keening … the poor woman was in a hospital room with four freaking doctors, not one of whom was payin' any attention to her. They were all of 'em intent on interrogating the husband.

The guy stood next to his wife, trying to calm her, stroking her. Anyone, well, a hunter, anyway, could see what was going on here. The woman was obviously the victim of a supernatural being, and she wasn't gonna get any better without some intervention of the hunting kind.

Those assholes. Dean turned to the docs and spat, "What the hell? You don't answer your pagers, okay, I can see that if you're actually doin' somethin' for somebody else, but all of you are just sitting here tormenting her husband" – he gestured behind him at the bed – " talking him to death!"

He walked right up to House, who was leaning back against a table, and stuck his face in the doc's. He was really trying to keep ahold of his temper; nothing would be gained by losing it.

"So, if you all don't mind, could you maybe come and see to my brother? He's taken a real bad turn for the worse."

House looked down, acted like he was considering it. When he brought his head back up and Dean looked in his eyes, he knew by the glint pretty much what was coming. Security, probably, ultimately, but by god they'd help Sam while he dealt with whatever.

House said, "We'll go check on Sam when we're ready. He's in good hands in the meantime. Now, Dr. Cameron –"

Dean closed his eyes. When he opened them, he grabbed House by the collar and jerked him close.

"Look, you sonofabitch. You give me this whole song and dance about how you're the head doctor, and you're so great and everyone needs your frickin' expertise. So now's your chance." He roared, "Get off your fuckin' ass and help people!"

He threw House away from him with enough force that the doctor hit the wall, his cane clattering away from him. House bounced off into Foreman, who stayed on his feet and kept House from going down. Dean saw Cameron messing with her cell, yeah, that Security call he'd been expecting, and Chase had – finally, someone! – gone over to the husband and the patient.

"Is at least one of you gonna go help Sam? Or am I gonna hafta drag someone down there?" he said.

Chase stepped up. "I'll go."

Cameron looked alarmed. "Chase! You don't know what he–"

"Nah," he said, pushing his blond hair back and straightening his white coat. He glanced over at his boss. "Dean here's just worried about his brother. I'm good." He turned to Dean. "I'm right, yeh?"

"Yeah. Let's go then. Thanks a lot, the rest of you. Maybe one of you could help this lady?" He snorted and walked out the door, Chase following him.

As they moved quickly down the hall toward the stairs, the blond guy said conversationally, "Y'know, House really is an incredible diagnostician."

Dean said, "Yeah, well, what does that even mean?"

"That he's good at figuring out what's wrong with people, so he can help them get better. He's unorthodox, but he's rarely wrong."

"Well, Chase, I'm pretty sure Sammy and me can out-unorthodox your boss any time. And as for figuring out what's wrong with Sam, I already know. I just can't fix it. That's what I need you guys to do."

"What?" Chase asked, startled. "You know what's wrong with him? What is it?"

"You'd never believe me. So I don't really care what you and House and the rest of the team think it is, I just want you to fix it. Then Sammy and I will get the hell out of this hospital and leave you alone to do whatever diagnosticating or whatever it is you do."

They reached Sam's room and entered. Laura, the original nurse, was now flanked by another nurse and three orderlies, all of them trying to keep Sam from hurling himself off the bed, trying to apply ice packs to his armpits and groin, or attempting to stop his bleeding. They were covered in blood – Sam's blood – and Dean was gonna have a heart attack if something didn't happen to help Sam soon. And Dean need to go somewhere quiet to think – think about what was happening here.

Chase was on his phone calling, Dean understood, for the temp-lowering room and equipment to be readied again. When he hung up, Dean asked him, "How many times can you do this? How many times can Sam survive this cooling-down thing?"

"Not too many," Chase said. "We're having to do it because the seizure meds aren't working and the fever's spiked again. Mr. Winchester –Dean – if you know what it is that's causing this, I _beg _you to tell me what it is."

"All right! Fine! It was the _busaw_ we killed – or I thought we killed – three days before we showed up here. Filipino monster kinda like an i_aswang_,/i a shapeshifter. We didn't know it carried venom. And by the way, I think it or something attached to it followed us here. The lady upstairs? Mrs. Chernoff? I think she's got what Sam's got."

The doc was just looking at him with his mouth hanging open.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Look, I gotta get away for awhile. Your colleague – the pretty chick doc? – she was calling Security and I am _not_ getting caught, so–"

Chase grabbed Dean's arm. "You can't be serious, surely?"

"Surely I can," Dean said, "but you ain't gonna believe it and I'm not gonna stick around to try to convince you. I'm gonna have to figure out another way to beat this."

He took a last look at Sam, who was beginning to struggle less, though whether it was due to blood loss or to some mixture of meds, he couldn't tell. One last glance at Chase – "Help him, please!" and he was out the door and gone, just as the hospital rent-a-cops appeared.


	4. Chapter 4

6.

This was no way to manage a hunt:

He had no HQ, had only the (apparently crappy) research on _busaws _he and Sam had done a week ago that didn't include venom in their claws or either a mate or partner, or the ability to pursue, hunt, and attack after death. It was probably the former; Dean was damn sure he'd ganked that thing but good.

Anyway, he had significantly less money than when they arrived, most of it spent on coffee, none of it, he mourned, spent on beer. He hadn't had a drink in days and God could he use one. He wanted a glass of whiskey that he wasn't gonna get.

Sam was the smart one, who coulda dealt more comfortably with the people here, and he was out for the count. He might even be dying, but Dean wasn't going there. Practically speaking, he had no one covering his back in a closed environment where the monster could look like anyone and Dean knew almost no one. The people he did know had become obstacles, even as he had to depend on them for Sam. And last, but not least, the monster had moved out away from the Winchesters into the rest of the hospital population. Dean had to work fast with no knowledge, no friends, no food or drink, and no real place to sleep. He was left moving from place to place, identity to identity within the hospital, trying to stay invisible and unnoticed.

It was really not his style at all. He tended to get noticed for one reason or another.

Okay for the moment at the back of this chaotic storage room, Dean stripped off the scrubs he'd stolen to catch some shut-eye in one of the resident rooms. He folded and placed them on a shelf he'd knocked the stuff off and made his own, and dressed in the button-down, the chinos and the white jacket he'd helped himself to from an easily opened locker. He made do with his own boots. A man's gotta be able to walk and run; you don't mess around when it comes to footwear.

He felt better for the sleep and remembered without difficulty the way down to Maida Chernoff's room. The husband might be able to give him some useful info if he thought Dean was some kind of authority. So – hospital administration, public relations, yeah, that'd do it. House and his crew had set the scene up for him: he'd be looking into staff-patient family relations. Dean had to smother a snicker.

On his way down to the Chernoffs, Dean snagged a couple of rolls and a slice of Canadian bacon off an unattended breakfast tray. The patient was probably too sick to enjoy it anyway. Wow, that was good food. Maybe he could find some OJ and a cup of joe too ...

He knocked lightly on the open door, the way he remembered the docs doing it, put his head in and said to Chernoff, "Morning, Mr. Chernoff. I'm Link Wray with hospital public relations. Is this a good time for a little talk?"

It was definitely a good time for a talk; Chernoff had a complaint and Dean seemed to be the right guy to make it to.

By the time Dean was able to extricate himself from there, he knew a lot more. Mrs. Chernoff had been doing much better. The symptoms of the illness she'd been hospitalized for were nothing like what she was now suffering. There was no medical precedent, Mr. Chernoff said he'd been told, for one disease transforming into something so different, without a clear-cut etiology.

In other words, it had happened like magic. Bad magic.

Dean had pressed him about the "attack" on his wife that he'd talked about. At first Chernoff was reluctant to talk about it. He said, finally, that he must have heard his wife call out or something and maybe that had shaped his dreaming.

"What was the dream, Mr. Chernoff? What did you actually dream?" Dean asked.

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"No, I'll probably believe you. I've seen more weird crap than you'll ever see."

"I was so tired that – this is what I thought, you understand – that one of the nurses came into the room and closed the door. She looked at me and ... and laughed. I couldn't move at all, or say anything." The man wiped his face with his hand. "Then she changed. Her nose and mouth grew out and ... and ... melded together. Like the beak on a bird. A long, sharp beak."

"What did she look like? The nurse, before she changed?"

"Um, she had brown hair, really long, past her shoulders?"

"Anything more you can remember?"

" Let me think. … Well, she was tall, about 5 foot 10, maybe, and thin. Her eyes were really wide apart. I couldn't tell the color. High forehead. Her hair was dark, but I couldn't really tell the color – it was dark in here." He scratched his nose. "Her hair was really long, though. She was wearing it loose and it was down way past her shoulders."

Good. The guy had a memory.

"After she changed, did she do anything to you?" Dean asked him.

Chernoff looked at Dean. "You think I really saw something?"

Dean laughed humorlessly. "You really think you didn't?"

"So – I'm not insane?" Chernoff leaned forward and put his face in his hands. "Thank God" came, muffled, through his fingers.

Awkwardly, Dean patted the older guy on the shoulder. The man leaned into it for a moment, then waved him away. He reached into his pocket, pulled out an old-style hanky and blew his nose.

"You want me to tell you the rest of it?" he asked.

Dean glanced out through the door and closed it. "Please." He sat down across from him, shifting the chair so it better faced the door.

"Okay," said Chernoff. He took a breath. "This thing, it was still a she, you know? Her body got more muscular and her legs grew, too, bigger and longer. Her arms got longer, too, and her fingers and the nails on them ..." He swallowed. "They stretched and curved, like claws. ... Not like claws, they _were_ claws! I was terrified, but I couldn't move."

"Then what?" Dean prompted.

"It laughed. It was a horrible sound. Like choking. Then it left me and went to my wife. She was asleep, but when the thing reached her, she woke up. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. That was when I noticed the smell. God, it was an awful smell. Like – like something dead and rotten."

The guy's eyes were seeing nothing now, Dean knew he was remembering the _busaw_ – a creature, a monster he'd never seen the like of before and couldn't have believed in until he saw it, heard it, smelled it.

"What was it?" he asked Dean. "What was it that came in here, into my Maida's hospital room, and pushed its claws into her body? It violated my wife – it sucked at the wounds it made on her!" Outrage came over the man's face. "And I couldn't move. I tried, Mr. Wray. I tried with every ounce of strength in my body and none of it – none of it! – was any use."

The tears were pouring down his face, ignored as he begged Dean to tell him why.

Dean had to loosen his tie. He ran his finger underneath his collar. Too hot and stuffy in here. The man was too close and Sam was downstairs, sick, maybe as sick as this woman, and she was gonna die.

She was gonna die, and maybe soon, and her poor schmo of a husband knew it. He wanted Dean to tell him it wasn't gonna happen, but it was, and Dean wouldn't – couldn't – lie to him. And it had nothing to do with medicine, or disease, or this test or that procedure.

It was just evil, pure and simple.

Dean became aware of the silence. Chernoff had run out of story to tell.

Dean felt vicious on this man's behalf, as well as own. He cleared his throat. "How about your wife's doctors, Mr. Chernoff? Have you been, um, happy with them? Good communication, bedside manner and all that?"

The guy's outrage followed Dean's very broad hint, and found, in Dean's view, a very worthy target.

"The doctors? The doctors here are terrible! They come in here and instead of taking care of my wife, they yell at me! You'd think I made her sick." He pounded a fist on his open other hand. "They're bastards, especially that guy House. That guy thinks he's God or something, talking down to me like I'm a moron. Like I didn't see that monster that hurt my girl!"

Dean felt a little joy at Chernoff's next words:

"I'm gonna find a lawyer!"

The volume of the man's voice had risen dramatically. Somebody was gonna be coming down here PDQ to see what was going on, and Dean had to be gone.

Suddenly, Mrs. Chernoff began to struggle, over in her bed. She sounded like she was trying to catch her breath, desperately, futilely.

Dean looked at Chernoff. His face had gone ashen.

Someone had to check on her. Dean said, "Call a nurse, man. This sounds bad." Chernoff obeyed.

He didn't have much time to get outta there, but he had to check on her anyway. He went over to the bed and lifted the sheet. The woman's skin was melting into her body. Her blind eyes rolled around in their orbits and her mouth was open in a silent scream of obvious anguish. Her lips began to dissolve as he watched.

There was nothing he could do for her.

Mr. Chernoff ran back into the room, followed by a guy in scrubs, not an orderly, but a nurse, Dean guessed. Chernoff started for the bed, but Dean stopped him.

"Mr. Chernoff, you do not want to look," Dean said. "You do not want to see her like this, I'm telling you."

He looked at Dean without understanding.

"I have to. She's my wife. How can I not go to her?"

Dean felt as though his heart was being compressed by a giant fist. It hurt him to see the guy like this, already in pain, minutes, maybe seconds, before he'd be feeling the anguish Dean's dad had known since Dean was four, and just about Sammy's whole life.

Dean let him go.

As he flew out the door, he heard the sound he'd expected: the sound of a man screaming, a broken man, for whom nothing in life would ever be the same.

7.

Dean unrolled himself from the tangle of old sheets and towels he'd found in his storage room. He felt better, even more optimistic than he had yet. He'd stolen some food from the cafeteria; paying for it was apparently largely based on the honor system, happily for Dean, who wasn't. He'd taken it back up to his storage room, eaten, and rolled himself up in a bunch of worn-out, but clean, towels and sheets, and gone to sleep.

Now it was night, a few hours after Mrs. Chernoff's grisly death by _busaw,_ and time for Dean to get to work.

At least something had come from grilling the husband. Dean knew who to look for, at least what she looked like. He damned himself for not grabbing Mrs. Chernoff's chart before he'd split. Now he was either going to have to hunt down the chart on its way to Files, or call it up on a hospital computer so he could get the names of all the employees who'd had anything to do with the woman around the night her husband said it all went down.

Dean knew the _busaw_ would be masquerading as an employee – actually doing the job – during the day, taking on its real form at night to feed. The Filipino monsters usually went for babies and children. The really powerful ones went for grown men and women who were powerful themselves, strong physically and powerful with the affection of others. With _love_.

Sam was strong as hell physically. And Sam was loved. Dean knew how much. He wasn't, in retrospect, surprised that the first _busaw_ had gone for Sammy when they were hunting it.

In the hospital, where Dean had no doubt their monster, or its buddy, mate or ghost had pursued them, love would be enough.

He dressed in his scrubs again, his Princeton-Plainsboro "evening attire." The very small joke amused him and his lip twitched despite the circumstances. There was even a mirror in here, so he could see what kind of an impression he'd make on fellow employees. Ha, him and the _busaw_ both impersonating hospital staff. Kinda ironic, really.

Needed a shave. Could use a little gel for his hair. Could use a shampoo and a shower, actually, but none of them were happening. He sprayed some expired liquid something on his hand and ran it through his hair. Better already. The Don Johnson look wasn't too bad, not with the scrubs. He'd get by.

Cup of coffee. See Sam. Find a computer.

He had the $1.50 for the coffee machine, fortunately, and, drinking it, made his way down to Sam's floor. Passing a patient parked in the corridor, Dean swiped his chart to make himself look official. Nodding hello at the people he encountered – none of 'em were Sam's docs – he peeked into his brother's room, and seeing no one but a Sam-sized lump on the bed, he went in.

"Sam." Dean shook Sam's shoulder, as if the kid was sleeping. It was wishful thinking and it was stupid, but Dean couldn't help it. Some kind of elation filled him when he got a response – weak, yeah, but definitely Sammy.

"Dean."

Dean peeled back the blanket to have a look, afraid at what he might find. "Sam! You look pretty good."

"Gee, thanks, Dean." Sam's face was pale and drawn. He looked like hell. "What day is it?

"We got here two days ago. You've had over-the-top fever and major seizures at least twice and they had to ice you down. Literally."

"Yeah, I remember some of that. What about you? You okay?" Sam's voice was hoarse, but, damn, it sounded good to Dean.

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Kind of on the run here, but I've found me a storage room, it's got prehistoric meds ,and sheets with holes in 'em, nobody remembers it's there and it's all good."

Sam tried to sit up, but was too weak. Dean said, "Sam, just lie back. Exertion might set it off again. Look, a lady's died here from a _busaw_ attack."

"_What?_ We killed it!"

"Yeah, _ours,_ I'm pretty sure we ganked. There's another one here. There's either a national infestation or ours had family that followed us here. And now it's goin' after civilians."

"It's poisonous, isn't it? Something we didn't know. Shit, Dean. Can we find an antidote?"

"I don't know. If Dad didn't know they were venomous, nobody did. Bobby might have people to call, but our cells're both dead as doornails and I don't think we even have the time. I'm hoping that if I kill it, the poison'll stop working."

"Damn. Okay, Dean. Thanks. I think … I'm gonna have to sleep. …"

"Wait!" Dean poked Sam in the chest. "I gotta ask you about a nurse."

"Is one of 'em hot?"

"No! One of 'em's the monster, Sam!"

Sam's eyes shot open. "Which one?"

"That's what I need to know." He gave Sam Mr. Chernoff's description of the monster's human form.

Sam was quiet for so long, Dean thought he might've gone back to sleep. He was gonna poke him again, which he didn't want to do, when Sam opened his eyes and said, "Yeah, I know who that is. Her ID tag says 'Jenny Dimagiba.' It makes sense. 'Dimagiba' means 'unbreakable'. In Tagalog.'"

Dean stared at him. "How do you even know that shit, geek boy?"

Sam smiled sleepily. "Just kill it, Dean. Make sure nobody else gets hurt." He rolled over away from his brother.

Shaking his head, without thinking, Dean tucked Sam in, just as if they were kids again. "Sure, thing, Sammy," he said. He patted his little brother's shoulder one more time and turned. Only to find himself face to face with Chase, the Aussie doc. Shit. Maybe he'd better get his ears checked. He hadn't heard a thing behind him.

"Mm. Hey," he said. "Dr. Chase."

"Dean," said Chase.

"Well, I really should be going." Dean felt a little surreal, like he was in some play, like one of those 19th-century English lit things that Sam liked, or said he did, anyway. They were opaque to Dean, but he did understand a tea party when he saw one.

"I don't think you should be going just yet," Chase said pointedly. "In fact, you are just the man I've been looking for."

"Yeah, you and Security. I think I'll just –"

"No," said Chase. "Please. I didn't and I'm not going to call Security. I need to talk to you about that story of Mr. Chernoff's. I think he might not be crazy and I think you know something about it."

Dean thought for a second. He was surprised, but if the guy was playing straight, he could be helpful. "Any of your school pals coming here anytime soon?"

"Who – you mean Foreman or Cameron? No, they can't – they're doing a workup on a new patient. He was found this morning with whatever it is your brother's got and that killed Ms. Chernoff."

"Shit," said Dean. He sat down hard on the chair next to the bed. "Old guy? Young? A patient? Is he dead?"

"Mr. Konstantinou's still alive," said Chase. "Just. He's got worse faster than Mrs. Chernoff did. He's an older man, in his 70s, who came in yesterday morning with a diabetic infection. He was already responding well to antibiotics yesterday evening, but this morning he was half-blind, feverish, and not responding well to cooling, as your brother has. Each of the patients has some entirely different symptoms, but it's the same disease."

"How do you know?" asked Dean, frowning.

"Same blood analysis. All three of them have an extra element in their blood, but it's something we've never seen before. We don't have the time to do the proper research on it – but we might have to send samples to the government if it takes on epidemic proportions."

"Does Mr. Konstantiwhatever have a bunch of concerned family, friends?"

"Yes. … Wife, daughter, two sons and grandkids, all here at the hospital to see how he's doing. Why?"Chase frowned. Dean didn't bother to answer.

"All right," he said finally. "You're going to have a tough time believing any of this, but with one of you guys helping, we might be able to beat it. And we hafta do everything fast, because I don't think Sammy's got much more time."

Dr. Chase nodded. "Try me."

"All right," said Dean. He told Chase as little as he could about what he and Sam did, and what had really brought them to Princeton, but the guy wanted to know more. He asked logical questions and seemed to take it in.

"So you don't know how to cure the illness it causes, but to stop it spreading, at least, we've got to kill the _busaw_, right? So we can pretty much relax about it being a contagious disease like ebola?"

"Yeah, I'd bet on that," Dean said.

Chase sat back. "Well, thank God for that," he said.

"Killing it's _my_ job, Dr. Chase. But you can help me find it, and if killing it doesn't stop the illness, then you've gotta keep your colleagues working on a cure, okay?"

"Absolutely," Chase said.

"So I've got a name. Jenny Dimagiba. Filipino name, no surprise, it's a Filipino monster. You'd know her as a nurse. Been here only a short time."

"I'll look her up and let you know what her duties are tonight. Um … you are certain she's not a human being and that she has something to do with this."

"You heard Chernoff's story. I'm tellin' you, it's all true. The guy has a great memory, even under duress. Tell the truth, I was impressed. So, yeah, all true. All your Jenny D."

"Then I'll be right back. Ten minutes, tops." Chase left.

Dean leaned back in his chair and forced himself to relax. Now they were cookin' with gas, bypassing files and the computer both. He looked behind him, but Sam was still out. Dean laid a hand on his forehead. Damn it, his brother was beginning to heat up again. He'd better get on this and gank that bitch.

When the Aussie doc returned 15 minutes later, he brought with him Dimagiba's schedule for the next 36 hours, a cup of coffee – decent coffee – a ham sandwich and a Styrofoam container with dessert.

"I forgive you the extra five minutes, dude," Dean said to him. He wolfed down the sandwich and drank the coffee like it was ambrosia. When he discovered the container held a piece of pie, he said, "Forget the forgiveness, man, I think they oughta saintify you, or whatever they call it!"

"Canonize," said Chase. "It's the declaration of something God has allegedly already done."

His mouth full of pie, Dean said, "You're pretty well-informed on that stuff for a doctor, aren't you?"

"Studied in seminary before medical school. Thought I was going to become a priest."

"Hmm." Dean thought about that for a minute while he chewed. He swallowed and said, "Problem of faith, not of belief, huh?"

"Yeh. Something like that. Whatever; I don't have some of the same problems believing in 'weird shit' that my colleagues have. Especially Dr. House. All of this has to be kept from him. If he finds out I'm dabbling in the supernatural, my job is history."

"No problem." Dean swallowed the last of the pie and looked at the wall clock. "It's 9:30 p.m. now. Saint Chase, meet me here at midnight. Figure out where we're at." He stood up and tossed his garbage into the can. He glanced back once at Sam, nodded to Chase and left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

8.

11:00 p.m. Weapons. He needed weapons. Guns were out, even if he had 'em, which he didn't. Knives he had. Also, now, a couple packages of disposable scalpels. "For the home of every hunter!" he quipped in an imaginary TV ad. They were nice and sharp and with the packs pre-opened, they were easily accessible. And four to a pack, so, he had missiles. So: Weapons, check. Salt stolen from the cafeteria, four shakers, check. Holy water, check. (He'd found Chase again and asked him to do the honors. Chase obliged.) Dean would've preferred a gun or two, he liked blades fine, but you generally had to get in close. And he hadn't liked the look of those claws.

Good to go. He packed everything on his person, mentally double-checked where it all was, and headed out to the fourth-floor waiting room near Jenny D's station. She'd start there on her 11:30 rounds and Dean should be able to follow her. He'd wait for the right time and, he hoped, surprise her before she turned. Then, out to a stairwell, salt and burn. Probably set off a fire alarm. He didn't see how he could get her out of the building.

He picked a seat with a good view of the corridors and the nurses' station, took up a newspaper and pretended to read. And….right on time, there she was. Chernoff's description fit her to a T: uncharacteristically tall for a Filipina; eyes far apart; exceptionally long, dry black hair worn loose, unusual for a nurse.

When she left, Dean followed her.

He skulked around each patient room on the fourth floor waiting for an opportunity that didn't manifest; when she went up to floor five on the elevator, he ran up the stairs fast enough to see her emerge.

Dean stayed back when she went into the first room on the corridor. It was dark and emptier up here than it had been on the floor below. Easier to stay hidden and follow close, he thought.

She sure was taking her time. He didn't like that and moved quietly to the door. Took a quick look in, just to make sure everything was okay in there.

Oh, holy shit. It sure as fuck wasn't okay in there.

Jenny D. wasn't a woman anymore. She was a monster. She was a freakin' humongous _busaw,_ bigger than the other one he and Sam had taken out. And sure as shit, she was advancing on the bed. Another poor sonofabitch was gonna go down if Dean didn't stop things from going any farther.

He threw the door open, slamming it against the wall with a huge bang. The monster whipped 'round and now Dean could see the claws on it, growing as he watched, it was like fuckin' Wolverine or that Asian girl, what was her name? Lady Deathstrike, that was it, just this one was nowhere near as hot as that girl in the movie–

By this time, Dean had his shit together. He and the _busaw_ circled around the patient room, each looking for an opening. The _busaw_ feinted to the left, and Dean responded by throwing a scalpel at its head, missing by only about an inch.

He'd had a pack of four opened and ready and now the next one was in his hand, good to go. He closed one eye for better aim and faked throwing it. The monster ducked so when Dean did let the scalpel go, it hit it, right in the neck. Dean whooped, "All right! Hole in one!" And let loose the third, missing completely.

Still, Dean was pleased to see he'd made the _busaw_ pissed. Thin black ichor was streaming out of its neck and it kept clapping a paw on it and roaring in fury. The only way this could get better would be if the monster stuck a claw or two through its own face, Dean thought. This was a good time to get his bigger blade out, go in for the kill.

The patient was awake now. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a girl, about 16, open her eyes wide and scramble as far away as she could from the two in the center of her room. Then he and the monster circled around another few degrees and he couldn't see her anymore. He hoped he could keep her from becoming _busaw _chow.

The thing took advantage of his distraction and slashed at him. Dean threw himself back, managing to stay clear of those claws. He rolled to his feet and stayed down low in a crouch, a knife in each hand.

The _busaw _snarled and moved a little closer. Dean hurled the smaller blade, burying it in the monster's abdomen. Its almost water-thin blood poured out and it roared. Not whooping this time, Dean circled some more. He had to be ready for the moment to strike deep with the bigger blade. It would have to be the killing blow – all he had left was a packet of scalpels, and though they were nice, they weren't gonna kill this bitch.

Suddenly the _busaw _lunged at him. With all that blood it had lost, Dean hadn't expected it. A full-bodied scream rent the air – the girl – and he hadn't expected that either, lost his rhythm and was hit full on.

He was on the floor on his back, the enraged _busaw's_ full weight on top of him. The only saving grace was the monster was too close to him to use its claws. Its teeth were nasty, but no nastier than those of a human. It wouldn't bite him; that's not what _busaws_ did.

Dean still grasped his knife. He tried to squirm into a position from which to slash at the thing's head. It moved on top of him and he swung from the elbow, hitting its shoulder with the flat of the blade. The blow drew no blood, but it got its attention, and it moved up off Dean slightly, letting him get his elbow free and giving him hope – and then it moved a leg, bringing what passed for its knee right under the center of Dean's sternum.

The breath was crushed out of him and his knife went flying out of his hand. He heard it clatter to the floor and despite the need to catch his breath he tried to buck the monster off him. He stopped still when the monster extended its clawed hand toward his face, the tip of one about a half-inch from his eye. Dean didn't move a muscle, just stared cross-eyed at the claw just millimeters away from his sclera.

In a motion so swift Dean didn't even see it, the monster's other paw came down and, with all five claws, ripped the ever-living shit out of Dean's upper chest. Everything was agonizing pain and blur and 16-year-old-girl screaming until it wasn't, and then it was dark.

9.

Dean woke up slowly, still groggy from something he'd been given, probably for pain, since he wasn't feeling any. He remembered very well the events that had led up to him losing consciousness; he wasn't going to be happy with his own condition. What he wanted to know was whether the kid was okay and whether the monster was dead. If he was out of commission, he needed the monster to be dead, there was nobody else left to take care of it and save Sam and the old guy.

He tried to move and found it was no go. He tried to see, but it was pitch-dark in this room. He cleared his throat and called out, "Hey! Get a little light in here?"

"The curtains are open, Mr. Neil. That should be plenty of light to read by."

Who the hell was that, right next to his ear for God's sake? "Jesus, you nearly made me jump outa my skin. It must be night then, 'cause it's dark as sin in here. Can you turn on the lights? Please?" Dean asked.

"I'm your nurse. I was just changing the water in the jug. Mr. Neil, are you having difficulty seeing? You were severely injured. … Perhaps I'd better call your doctor."

Dean lay there, listening to her footsteps, and tried to stay calm. Maybe his eyes were closed and he just couldn't tell – still too doped up or tried to open them. One of his arms worked, and he raised it to his face. "Are my eyes open?" he asked. "Nurse? Hey, where are you?"

"I'm here, Mr. Neil. Dr. Chase will be here in a few minutes." At least it was Chase and not that asshat House. He closed his eyes.

"Dean. … Dean?"

The Aussie accent was useful.

"Yeah. Chase? What happened? Did I kill it? I know I got it. Is the girl all right? What's the deal with my eyes?"

"One thing at a time. The teenager wasn't hurt."

"Good." "But I don't think you killed the monster."

"Shit. How sure are you?"

"Let me fill you in. You didn't show up in Sam's room at twelve, so I went looking for you. A whole crowd was in the patient's room, trying to calm her down, trying to figure out what had happened, and trying to stop you from bleeding to death. You and the girl were the only ones in the room: she was hysterical and you were lying unconscious in a large puddle of your own blood."

Dean turned his head away from Chase's voice. Tears of frustration, that's all they were. He still didn't want anyone to see.

When he could, he turned back. His voice was taut. "The thing was bleeding. I got it in the neck and in the gut. There shoulda been gallons of the thing's blood in there."

"No," said Chase. "The only blood in the room was yours. Though there very nearly was 'gallons of it.' The monster was gone and so was its blood. The hospital decided not to have _you_ arrested for attacking a patient because you were nearly dead and it was obvious you didn't do it to yourself. Also, Taylor – the sick girl – kept insisting you had saved her life."

Dean could hear him pouring a cup of water. "No one's certain what did actually happen, but the hospital feels that since you aren't dangerous now, we're keeping you as a patient, despite the complete lack of insurance, and, for that matter, actual identity, unless we tell people who you really are. Some water?"

"No, I don't want any water. Ah, hell. What a mess. How's Sam doing?"

Chase said nothing until Dean struggled up on one elbow and angled his sightless eyes in the doctor's direction.

"How's he doing, Chase?"

Chase hurriedly cleared his throat. "He's hanging in. The fever returned and he had another seizure, starting at around 11:30 p.m. It got worse this time. Much worse. We had to cool him again and we had to go very low before it worked at all. If it goes on like this, he'll have brain damage, even if he survives."

"It's alive then," said Dean. "I'll have to go after it again." He would, too, until he could relax about Sam. The thing was, the pain from the slashes on Dean's torso was beginning to leak through the painkiller, and he could tell that when he got the whole whammy it was gonna hurt like a sonofabitch. He didn't even know what the damage actually was.

"No, you're not," said Chase. "I don't think you'd survive another bout with it. We'll have to find another way to stop it."

"I _have_ to–"

"Nurse McDonagh had me paged. She said you can't see? Blindness is one of the symptoms. You've been infected."

"I can't be blind. I mean, not permanently. I feel like hell, yeah, because I've just been ripped up, but my eyes don't even hurt."

"It doesn't matter for the moment. Look. Sam, and now you, have a lot more resistance to this thing because you started out healthy. But you're too injured to fight. And you're probably going to get a lot sicker before you get better. Isn't there some kind of … I don't know … _magic_ way of killing it?"

Dean couldn't help it. He started to laugh. Here he was, blind and barely able to move, his brother out for the count, and a monster they had brought with them killing sick people, _feeding off them_ at its leisure, and it was like he was talking to Harry effing Potter. It was just so goddamn freakin' funny.

He laughed until he started sounding a little hysterical even to himself. Coughing a little to cover the edge he'd heard, Dean said, "Yeah, you're right. And you're right about us needing to find another way, seeing as this way didn't do jack. Usually Sam is the research geek. You're gonna have to do it."

Chase was taken aback. "Me? But I don't know anything about this … area. Isn't there someone you can call?"

"What, like Ghostbusters? Ha. The last time I saw the one guy we could've called who's still alive, He was pointin' a shotgun at my dad's head. I don't think that's an option. You good with a computer?"

"Not bad," said Chase cautiously. "Why a computer?"

"Start googling '_busaw_.'"

"Seriously?" asked Chase. His voice went up high.

"Seriously," said Dean. "And you better step on it."

Dean slept on and off over the next day. He woke when Dr. Chase came by to check on him and give him reports on his research. Chase was a good guy, and might have been as good a researcher as Sam if he'd been raised as a hunter. It was just too bad for everyone right now that he hadn't. He was having to learn it all from the ground up. And it was taking too damn long. And Dean wasn't getting better fast enough.

Chase explained to him that he was still bleeding, not clotting properly – like Sam. Dean's sight might be permanently gone and did he feel a little feverish because his temp was actually up. Also, they were about at the upper levels for pain management. They couldn't give him any more than he was getting now.

"And House is suspicious. He might have seen something, I don't know what. I had to get Foreman to help me with some of the research. There was too much to cover and I still have to take care of my other patients. Foreman's all right – discreet anyway," Chase said. "But House loves information and he likes dirt on people. The man's a genius. He's a fantastic doctor, but it's mostly because he's completely neurotic – at best – about a challenge. It's not as though he cares so much about people. A little, maybe."

"Huh," said Dean. "Sounds a lot like a hunter."

"Well, then, he's hunting _you_," said Chase. "Nurse Dimagiba's disappeared. House knows she was assigned to Sam and to Mr. Konstantinou, as well as to the Chernoffs and he's putting things together. He's also appearing in your brother's room more and more frequently."

"Maybe that's not all bad." Dean lay back in the bed. "If he's so smart, maybe we should just give him the info and let 'im loose."

"Mmm. I don't think so," said Chase. "I can't imagine anything good coming out of that. He doesn't know you're a patient; I've had you registered as one of mine."

"I'm just sayin': let's think about it."

"Yeh, okay. I'll think," said Chase.

Yeah, right. Well, maybe Dean would think about it. He didn't like House, in fact he thought he was an arrogant prick, but if he was that smart he'd have to accept the evidence.

The pain was getting worse. He was getting chills and his head hurt. The chills were bad and he was starting to cramp. The first one, in his leg, seemed like a regular cramp, maybe from lying still so long. Then he got one in his good arm – then his _bad_ arm. And, Jesus, that hurt bad. It was all he could do to just buzz the nurse and ask for more pain meds. Which they had decided to limit. Like he was going to become an addict? Who cared, if he was going to be dead in a few days?

His thoughts went around in circles, over and over. When someone told him that night had finally come, it made no difference. Between the pain and his worry about Sam and the hapless patients at Princeton-Plainsboro … he just tossed and turned, mentally, anyway, and hurt and saw nothing but blackness. Images of the _busaw_, up close and personal, and Sam, back arched in agony, and the woman, Mrs. Chernoff, as she died, kept returning.

He must have finally fallen asleep, because a sound woke him up.

It was a small sound, but it didn't belong to Dean's collection of hospital sounds. It was a scraping sound, like something sharp or metal or like a dog's claws trying to slide quietly across a floor.

Dean came completely alert. It was okay after all that the pain meds were barely working; dopy would not have been good.

_Scrape_. And

_Scrape_ again.

It was definitely the sound of claws on flooring. If he didn't know it from the _busaw_, he'd have known it from other creatures he'd fought.

And fuckin' _ganked_.

He reached slowly, moving just the good arm, under his pillow to find the last package of scalpels. He'd managed to keep them in his boot, and his boots were under the bed in this room. When they put him in the stupid hospital gown and gone through his clothes, they hadn't bothered to check those. A blade had been the first thing he'd thought about after Chase left the first time.

One of the scalpels slid nicely out of the package. One-handed, Dean peeled off its protective cover. He nicked himself on the cutting edge and ouch. Sharp.

Good. Very, very small, but very, very sharp.

_Scrape._Much too close now for comfort.

Dean lay still, every muscle tensed and ready. He tried to look relaxed (like he ever looked relaxed), like he was sleeping; he wanted the fucking monster as close as he could get it before he tried to take it out with a disposable surgical scalpel size 10 with plastic handle. The image that conjured up was so ludicrous he almost snickered. He banished it.

_Scrape._ And Dean could feel the air move next to his face. The thing was leaning over him, examining him, inspecting him. Breathing its fetid breath onto him, breathing Dean into itself.

He couldn't stand it any more. With every ounce of strength left in his body, Dean slashed out fast, right where he knew the _busaw's_ head to be, and jammed the tiny blade directly into an eye, deep, so deep his fingers felt the jelly around its cornea.

The thing reared back, roaring, the sheer volume of it causing everything in the room to shake. Broken as he was, Dean scrabbled back as far as he could get into the corner where wall and bed met. His weight made the bed scoot away from the wall and he fell half off it, into the corner on the side away from the maddened _busaw_.

Dean forgot his own pain in the pleasure of hearing the monster's. He was smiling and he knew that was all fucked up. But he was glad it was going to die in agony. He didn't even care whether he could be cured or not, but maybe Sam could get better.

He, Dean Awesome Fucking Winchester, had killed this motherfucking sonofabitch bastard monster and it was never gonna feed off or kill any other human being ever again.

The roaring went on and on and on and Dean held his one good hand over one ear, pressing the other side of his head into the bed, waiting and waiting and waiting for it to stop.

Finally, it did.

Dean lifted his head cautiously, listening for anything that might mean the _busaw_ had survived.

Nothing but silence. He let go of the bed and slid to the floor, catching himself on the elbow of his bad arm. Sharp, piercing pain went through him like a spear and he grunted with it. When it subsided, he let go and lay down on the cool floor and just rested. He felt the adrenalin draining away.

"Dean? … Dean? Oh, my God. This – it's horrible! Where are you? … Dean!"

Chase.

"Yo!" Dean managed. "Down here. Fell down behind," he wheezed. He was having a little trouble breathing. Probably hadn't really been ready for a fight.

"Okay. It's okay, Dean." Dean heard Chase's voice come nearer and the bed creak as the doc pushed it out of the way. Hands moved Dean away from the wall and into a sitting position.

"Are you all right? I saw you with that … that … _thing._I was watching from behind the door. It was horrible! … How are you? Are you all right?"

"Not a drop of my blood spilled, man."

That was what Dean tried to say, but he couldn't get it out, couldn't breathe. … Damn, the pain was incredible. … he'd never felt anything like this. … "Aahhhhhhh!" was all that came out of his mouth, and waves of heat began welling up from his chest where the thing had got him before. … It was so so so bad …

Dimly he heard Chase. "Shit," the Australian doctor was saying. "He's got it full force now. Help me get him up on the bed."

Hands – whose, he didn't know or care – were helping him, readjusting the stupidass hospital gown that was absolute crap for fighting monsters in, getting him tucked back in, wiping down his face and neck. He felt a slight prick in the back of his hand and understood it was intravenous something, but it sure as hell wasn't a painkiller because the pain … was something ferOCIOUS ––––

Thank God, he thought, as he felt his consciousness spiraling away into the darkness that was all he was ever going to see ever again. If he ever woke up.


	6. Chapter 6

10.

He did wake up. In a room with Sam in it. That snore was one he'd have known anywhere and it was definitely his brother – still alive. Was it too much to hope that, now the thing was dead, Sam might live for sure?

Didn't care so much about himself. He felt like shit.

_BANG_

The door burst open and a lot of footsteps crowded into the room. Dean heard/felt Sam wake up, definitely heard him say weakly, "Eh? What's going on?"

A poke in the arm with a stick was what was going on and Dean knew it was that prick House, followed by all his minions, no doubt. Probably Chase included, so at least there was one of 'em on the Winchester side.

"You. Mr. Dean Winchester. Link Wray. Vince Neil? All three of you have been rampaging all over my hospital, barging in on patients, giving nurses heart attacks, and poaching members of my team."

Chase was right. The guy _was_ good.

Dean lay there, keeping his eyes closed. What the hell could House do to him? Blind him? Oh, too late. Make him sicker? Any sicker and he'd be dead. So go for it, Dr. House.

"Feel free, Mr. Winchester the elder, to go on pretending you're asleep. I'll just talk at you for a while. Eventually you'll realize you'd much rather answer me and let me help you and your brother and the barely animated Mr. Konstantinou survive this very nasty illness." Dean wasn't gonna respond unless the guy said something useful.

House continued his little speech. "You, Mr. Winchester the younger: yes, we know you're very, very ill. If there is any chance you would like to live, and, by the way, cure your brother, who is now _also_ dying, you should take this opportunity to communicate whatever information you have. If you have no such information, you may keep your mouth shut. Feel free to continue dying."

"And you" – the _squeak_ was House turning a semi-circle on his gym shoes – "Dr. Chase, you've been a vewy wascally widdle wabbit. You've gone and got yourself a completely private patient who also happens to be a criminal in several states. You see the position you are in. You can speak up now or get the hell out of my hospital because you will be fired and probably put away for years if you don't."

"House–" started Chase.

Dean groaned. If the pain hadn't flared up, he would've groaned anyway.

"Tell him, Chase," he said. "Just tell him."

"Thank you, Mr. Winchester."

"Hey, I'm not telling him that because I like you. I just think you're a nosy bastard who's probably really good at his job."

Dean could almost hear House grinning. Dammit, the guy was such a smartass, he was actually beginning to like him.

"Now, speak up," House said. "All the other children want to hear the story."

Chase told them what he knew.

"So," said House. "Dr. Foreman, you were involved as well."

"Just a little, at the end–"

Hah! Dean liked hearing that guy squirm a little. He was almost as arrogant as House.

"Like 'a little bit pregnant,' Dr. Foreman?" House asked.

"Uh–"

"Never mind. You get points for successfully hiding it from me. I see, on the other hand, that Dr. Cameron is completely in the dark here. A sign of an upright, upstanding character, perhaps, but not particularly useful in this branch of medicine. Where we get our information any way we can."

_Tap_thunk, tap_ thunk_, _tap_thunk_

House's footsteps, walking around the room. Lecturing like the pompous prat he was.

Suddenly, Dean felt House's cane poke him again. "Goddammit!" he bellowed. "Cut that shit out!" Ignoring the fire that went through his shoulder, Dean grabbed the damn cane and pulled hard. A loud thud and a yelp followed.

Dr. Cameron said, "Dr. House! Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Cameron. Don't just stand there, help me up."

Dean let the cane drop. It clattered to the floor. Satisfyingly. He heard Sam, sick as he was, sniggering. And a couple of the minions were coughing suspiciously.

"I think I'll take a seat," House said.

"This is a lot of fun, and I apologize for butting in, but if somebody could order up some painkillers, I'd appreciate it," Dean said. He was beginning to burn.

"Very quickly, then. Dean. I think we'll stick with 'Dean' from now on. It's just so much easier to think of you as one person. Sam was injured by the first _busaw_, and you by the one that _chased_ (heh, heh)" – that was actually kind of funny, Dean thought – "after you here to Princeton. And the fact of the venom was unknown, correct?"

"Yes," Dean said through clenched teeth. "Meds? Over here? Now?"

"Soon, Dean, as soon as I know everything I need to know to help you. Where was I? Oh, yes. Unknown, and Sam's symptoms didn't appear for a couple of days, while yours were almost immediate, as were Mrs. Chernoff's and Mr. Konstantinou's?"

"Yes!" Dean managed to get out. He would've said "yes" to anything now.

"All right, then. While you, Dean, and Dr. Chase have been running around playing 'Musical Patient Rooms' and 'Last One to the Fifth-Floor Storage Room is a Rotten Egg,' I've been working on blood analysis and other miracles of modern science. I believe what we have here is a bacterial infection – not a terribly contagious one, thankfully – that is transferable from _busaw_ to human. When the _busaw_ fed on someone, the physical responses were somewhat different from when it attacked someone; the differences were in part the _busaw's _hormonal chemistry interacting with the venom in its claws, both receiving blood from the creature's digestive system."

"That's fantastic, House! I'm dyin' here!"

"I'm almost finished, Dean. I did, by the way, so enjoy your last little trick with my cane. The physical symptoms are those of a non-designated mitochondrial disease. An autoimmune thing. This sent me in the wrong direction at first. However, when I realized that a _busaw _was involved–"

Chase interrupted, Australian accent thick as marmite. "How didja know that? How couldja possibly have known that?"

"I was unable to figure it out until our new Filipino nurse disappeared, 'coincidentally' at the same time as the Winchesters arrived and the attacks began. That led me to research Filipino sources, especially those in Tagalog only; journals in English would be completely unlikely to discuss anything remotely 'supernatural,'" House said, his enjoyment audible.

"In Tagalog?" whispered Sam.

"Yeah," Dean croaked. "Guy's good, isn't he?"

"We might even get out of here alive," Sam murmured.

"That'd be fabulous, Sam, but RIGHT NOW I WANT SOME FUCKING PAIN MEDS!" Dean shouted.

"Certainly," House said. "In a moment. Where was I? Oh, yes. And my idea was confirmed when none of the patients recovered when the creature died, as they would have had the symptoms been solely what you call 'supernatural.' The 'supernatural' is, of course, just what is natural but about which little is known."

"Sonofabitch," Dean breathed. "House! Finish up your damn … disquisition … "

House continued as if he hadn't heard. "I have here, in my pocket, the antidote. Made from a distillation and treatment of the necessary elements in Sam's bloodstream."

Silence.

"Would one of you please call a nurse for Mr. Winchester?" House requested magnanimously.

11.

_Three days later_

"Dr. Cuddy, why are you following me around?" asked House. "I've just cured three patients of an illness not previously known to exist. That should be enough for you for one week."

"House, I don't even know if any of these patients but Mr. Konstantinou actually existed. He's the only one whose chart I can even find," she said indignantly. "Can't you do _anything_ like anyone else? It would make my job infinitely easier."

House stopped walking and turned to look at his boss. To her surprise, he was smiling – and it was a _pleasant_ smile, like one might wear who was, at least for the moment, genuinely happy.

He said, "I'm sure it would, Dr. Cuddy, but where would be the fun in that?"

The End


End file.
